


jj stealing other people's clothes, a series

by kiwiibiird



Series: the sweatshirt series [1]
Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Good Soft Friend Moments, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JJ (Outer Banks) Deserves Happiness, Light Angst, M/M, Outer Banks season 1, Sharing Clothes, and he gets it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26531728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiibiird/pseuds/kiwiibiird
Summary: The thing about JJ is he just-- doesn’t go home.He stays at the chateau with John B and Pope and Kie. He wears the clothes he left in until he can’t anymore, and then without even really realizing they’re doing it, the other pogues just start, like, giving him their clothes to wear.
Relationships: JJ & John B. Routledge, JJ & Kiara (Outer Banks), JJ/Pope (Outer Banks)
Series: the sweatshirt series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929283
Comments: 8
Kudos: 114





	1. Pope

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yes hello don't mind me just moving some obx fics from tumblr over here enjoy

The thing about JJ is he just-- doesn’t go home. 

He stays at the chateau with John B and Pope and Kie. He wears the clothes he left in until he can’t anymore, and then without even really realizing they’re doing it, the other pogues just start, like, _giving_ him their clothes to wear. 

Pope does it first. 

They’re sitting around a campfire in front of the chateau, and it’s one of those cold summer nights where the wind bites into your skin just a little too vengefully. JJ had left his dad’s in nothing but the shitty tank top he always wears, and he’s _freezing his ass off_ , despite his best attempts to be as close to the fire as humanly possible. 

And at some point, Pope says _“I’ll be right back,_ ” and he’s gone for a few minutes, JJ’s not really paying attention. He’s a little too busy chugging a Budweiser to heat himself up, when suddenly there’s a fresh, warm sweatshirt being dropped into his lap and Pope is settling back down between Kie and JJ like nothing even fucking happened. 

“What’s this for?” JJ asks, or tries to. His brain’s a little fuzzy on the whole _coherent_ _words_ thing with the Budweiser weighing down his tongue. He thinks he gets the message across though. 

“You were cold.” Pope shrugs, cracking open another can, “I got you a sweatshirt.” 

JJ blinks, looking down at the garment in his lap. It’s the navy blue one that Pope likes, with the anchor on the back. “This is _yours_ ,” he says, “I don’t need it.” 

“You’re shivering,” John B points out, grinning, and somewhere to his left Kie giggles. 

JJ scowls at him, is about to say something stupid and antagonistic, but then Pope is nudging their shoulders together and saying, “It’s fine, dude. I don’t want you to get cold.” 

And that makes something far _warmer_ than the Budweiser settle in his gut, makes it spread all the way up his spine to where his ears are turning cherry red, and _thank_ _god_ it’s dark outside because he really doesn’t need them all seeing _that_. 

So with no short amount of huffing and grumbling, JJ slips the sweatshirt on and tugs it over his shoulders and, somehow, it fits? Like, okay it’s a little long in the sleeves, but other than that? JJ can't find any other faults.

Bonus, it’s ridiculously warm. This thing must’ve been sitting on the radiator inside, or some shit. 

Regardless of the size, the main point is he’s warm. And he's wearing _Pope's sweatshirt_. And, _well_. 

And it’s kinda _perfect_. 

“Thanks,” he says it quieter than he would have liked, but all Pope does is raise his beer can to him with a dumb, theatric bow of his head, and JJ laughs and shoves at his shoulder.

The next morning, JJ’s still wearing it. 

Pope doesn’t say anything, so neither does he.


	2. John B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John B is a good friend and this is the hill that I will die on  
> 

The second time it happens, it’s John B. 

JJ’s passed out on the couch, nursing a hangover that kinda feels worse than death itself, when he’s roused by the sounds of John B waking up in the other room. 

He hears the familiar clack of the Big John’s loose bedroom door frame, and he knows his friend probably slept in there last night, like he has every night since his dad vanished clean off the face of the earth. It kinda makes JJ sad, a little. 

Eyes shut, he listens to John B shuffle into the kitchen, tosses a vague groan at him when he tells JJ, “Morning, _goldilocks_.” and goes about making some sort of breakfast. A few minutes later and the smell of toast and eggs are filling the chateau. Only when he feels a weight settle at the edge of the couch by his feet does he actually pry open his eyes. 

Setting down a plate full of buttered toast and scrambled eggs on the table in front of JJ, John B sits with his own plate in his lap crunching on some toast. His hair is a sleep tousled mess, and his eyes are a little bloodshot from the kegger last night. He looks about as rough as JJ feels. 

“Sleep ok?” John B asks as JJ sits up with a groan, and he laughs and shoves at his shoulder when JJ’s answer is an obnoxiously big bite out of a piece of toast right next to John B’s ear. 

“I think my brain exploded.” JJ admits after he’s made his way through most of the toast and a couple mouthfuls of eggs, and John B snorts. 

“A shower will help,” he says, patting JJ on the shoulder. He pauses, leaning in close for a moment before pulling back with his nose scrunched up, “Maybe wash your sweatshirt, too. You smell like bong water.” 

“Shit, really?” JJ rushes to smell the sweatshirt, and sure enough his nose wrinkles in disgust with the smell, and he feels his stomach bottom out, “Fuck, this isn’t even _mine_.” 

It’s Pope’s sweatshirt. JJ had just sorta kept it from when his friend had given it to him that night, and Pope had never said anything about it afterwards. He’d made sure to keep it clean just in case Pope ever wanted it back, and now it smells _gross_ and it’s dirty and JJ kinda feels like a dick for taking it in the first place. Shit, what if Pope wants it back today? He’s gonna be so _pissed_ if it’s dirty. What if—? 

“I’ll wash it for you,” John B cuts off his thoughts before they can spiral. 

“Really?” JJ asks, and John B nods, shrugging. 

“Yeah dude. It’s laundry day anyway. Just give me all your stuff and I’ll wash it.” 

JJ blinks at him, “I don’t have any backup clothes.” 

“You can just borrow some of mine,” John B shrugs again, giving JJ a quick smile before knocking their shoulders together, “Now go shower, you’re _reeking_ up the place.” 

JJ rolls his eyes and shoves at John B with a “ _fuck you, JB,_ ” that has no heat behind it before heading off to the bathroom to shower. The shower’s not anything spectacular, but it does feel nice to wash away some of the stale alcohol he can feel pumping through his bloodstream. 

He ends up wearing a pair of John B’s sweatpants and an old _Bubba Gump Shrimp_ T-shirt, and, honestly, it’s the most fucking comfortable thing he’s worn in his entire life. JJ’s not sure he’s going to be able to give it back. He might just have to keep it forever until the day he _dies_. 

He says as much, to which John B threatens casually, “You do that and I’m keeping the sweatshirt as collateral.” 

“It’s not even _my_ sweatshirt, dipshit.” 

“Pope gave it to you a week ago and you haven’t stopped wearing it since.”

Ears hot, JJ doesn’t say anything. 

“Listen, I’m not judging,” John B shrugs, grin easy as he nudges their shoulders together, “Pope’s got a good taste in clothes.” 

The two of them are sitting on the screened in porch, nursing their aching heads with black coffee and Tylenol while the sound of the washer echoes through the chateau. JJ thinks about Pope with his snapbacks and his old button ups that he never buttons and his thrift store t-shirts, and smiles a little. 

“Yeah,” JJ says, “He does.” 


	3. Kiara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, we're done! The next obx series will be transferred over soon, so keep an eye out!

With Kiara, it’s different. 

He storms into the chateau, banging the screen door open just a little too hard for it’s poor hinges, and he’s about three seconds away from losing his shit. 

His nose hurts. So does his eye. Fuck, his whole face just _hurts_. The fight with his dad didn’t even last that long, but JJ can tell from the ache that the evidence will be there a while. 

His thoughts are stuck on the way his dad’s ring stung against his lip, the metal splitting the skin like it was _nothing_. His mind plays on repeat how his father had swayed on his feet, screamed obscenities that neither of them knew the meaning to until he was blue in the face. He thinks about it over and over and over, and JJ has to try so very hard not to break something. 

He thinks about how his dad had passed out afterwards, empty beer bottle slack in his grip. Thinks about how heavy he’d settled onto the couch, like the weight of the world would crush him if he didn’t. 

Thinks about the, “ _You’re a good boy, son,_ ” he exhaled before his eyes rolled back in blackout sleep, and JJ doesn’t even register the scream he’s letting out before he’s kicking over John B’s coffee table, sending everything on top of it scattering and shattering to the floor. 

He doesn’t register the half choked sounds he’s making until he’s scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of Pope’s sweatshirt, sniffing weakly in an attempt to ward off the emotion clogging his throat as he kneels down and starts to pick up the remnants of his fury. 

He broke a mug that was only partially full of coffee, but other than that he cleans up most of it well. The chateau is such a mess anyway that he doesn’t think John B will notice a few new scratches across the top of the coffee table. 

He’s wiping his face again as he throws the broken cup in the trash bin. He pulls his hand back, and with it comes a surprisingly _large_ bloom of red spreading across the fabric of the sleeve. 

He tastes copper. His nose must’ve started bleeding again. 

He stares down at the scarlet spreading across the navy blue threads. It reminds him of the way markers bleed through paper. 

The panic sets in a little too late. 

“No. No, no no _no_ ,” JJ mutters quietly as he rushes to the kitchen sink, slamming the spigot on and shoving his sleeve under the freezing water. He scrubs vigorously at the stain, but the fabric only seems to darken. The blood remains. 

“Shit. Come on, _come_ _on_ ,” Frantically, he reaches for the hand soap beside the sink and squeezes it onto the sleeve. It’s hard with his hands shaking like this. He scrubs so hard his fingers burn against the fabric. The soap bubbles turn pink. 

The stain is still there when he shoves it under the water. He tries again, gathering more soap and rubbing it furiously into the bloodstain. He doesn’t know how long he repeats the process. Could be minutes, maybe an hour. All he knows is no matter how hard he tries, he still ruined it. 

It’s the only thing Pope’s ever given him, and he fucking _ruined_ _it_. 

A sound, born of frustration and anger and _everything_ , rips out his throat, and it echoes through the tiny kitchen like a firecracker. It leaves his eyes burning and his ears ringing. 

JJ chokes back another sob when it rises, slamming his fist against the edge of the sink, “ _God fucking damnit_.” 

The silence settles heavy in the air. He tries to bite it all back, swallowing dry and hard. He thinks he’s got a handle on it, but he knows that’s a lie. 

Then, there’s a soft voice behind him, “JJ?” 

When JJ turns, it’s Kiara. With one good look at him, her face turns from confusion and concern and morphs into one of disbelief and horror.

He stands there, face a bloody mess, sleeve sopping wet, hands covered in soap, and the best he can manage is a pathetic sounding, “Hi, Kie.” 

“Oh, JJ,” Kiara whispers, and JJ’s resolve falls apart. 

She reaches for him, and he comes into her arms with a cracked, broken sob. She holds him tight and he cries, winding his arms tight around her middle. She runs her fingers through his hair and murmurs meaningless kindnesses into his ear, and JJ’s never felt so tired. 

“What happened here?” She asks, after his breathing has slowed and he’s no longer bawling like a bitch, pinching his wet sleeve gently between her fingers. 

“I got blood on his sweatshirt,” He manages, voice wobbling, “I was trying to get it out, but _it won’t fucking—,_ ” He cuts himself off, and Kie looks at him in a way she never has before, and JJ kinda hates it. 

“I can help with that, if you want me to,” she says softly, meeting his watery gaze with kind eyes. Unable to speak around the lump in his throat, JJ nods, and Kiara nods too. 

“Okay. Give me this,” she says, tugging on his sleeve, and JJ complies. Tugging Pope’s sweatshirt up and over his head, he fixes the tank top he’s got on underneath while she folds it in her lap. Kiara gently brushes his hair out of his face, and says, “I’ll be right back.” 

When she comes back, she’s got John B’s first aid kit in her hands, and immediately JJ starts to say “ _I’m fine,_ ” on impulse, but the look Kie fixes him with keeps his mouth shut. 

“Come here,” she says, sitting down on the couch, and JJ goes. 

Pulling the bandana keeping her brown curls at bay out of her hair, she hands it to him, “Put this on.” 

JJ blinks, but takes it and does it anyway, “Why?” 

“So I don’t have to keep pushing your hair out of your face.” Kie smiles at him, and the sight of it makes something that was strung taut inside of him go slack. She says pointedly, “If you don’t get a haircut soon I’ll do it myself. While you’re sleeping.” 

“Ohh, _yeah_ , you wanna give each other hair cuts? Hope you like shitty bangs,” He grins, and Kie scoffs flicks his arm. He flicks her back, and it almost immediately dissolves into a flick war, which leaves the two of them giggling like children in its wake. 

After their laughter has subsided, Kiara opens up the first aid kit, pulls out a disinfectant wipe and gets to work. JJ holds still, lets her clean his face up, even when it stings. 

Kie doesn’t ask him about what happened. She just patches him up as best she can, and he’s kinda never been more thankful for her than he is right now. 

She slaps a blue and purple bandaid on the cut on his chin (John B literally only has _rainbow_ bandaids, like, what the fuck) when they’re done. JJ tries to fight her on it, but she pulls the _don’t test me, JJ,_ look, so he caves pretty easy. 

“Thanks, Kie,” he says it quietly, and Kie looks up from where she’s putting everything away at him, “For all of it.” 

Kiara sighs, patting his knee, “It’s no problem. I’ll see what I can do about your sweatshirt.” 

He starts to protest, “It’s not—,” 

“Not _your_ sweatshirt, I know, I know,” She cuts him off with an eye roll. JJ’s about to retort with something snarky when she continues simply, “Pope likes that you wear it, though.” 

JJ blanches, “He— _what_?” 

“He talks about it all the time. He says it’s like you’re carrying a piece of him around with you wherever you go,” Kiara’s smile grows wider, eyes knowing and just a little bit _devious_ , “Did you not know?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, _yes_. Of course,” JJ quickly goes casual, nodding like Kiara didn’t just tell him the one thing that makes his heart _sing_. A soft heat settles deep in his gut at the thought of Pope liking JJ wearing his clothes. It sends his stomach fluttering, and he resists the urge to grin like an idiot. 

Scratching at the back of his neck, he aims for nonchalant when he asks, “When, when did he happen to tell you that?” and Kiara laughs. 

“You two are hopeless,” She shakes her head, smile exasperatedly fond, “Just make sure you’re wearing it next time you see him. I’ll have it clean and back to you by tomorrow. _Trust me._ ” 

She adds it at the end when she sees JJ about to open his mouth in protest, and JJ really can’t argue with her about it. 

The next day, they’re headed out on the HMS Pogue early. Kiara, as promised, had delivered the sweatshirt back in perfect condition. JJ didn’t know how she did it. He suspected some sort of _witchcraft_ was at play. Kie neither confirmed nor denied that theory. 

Regardless, it’s warm against the morning chill, a soft barrier against the biting wind, and JJ likes it. Like, a _lot_. 

When Pope shows up, he’s yawning, which earns him a “ _Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!_ ” from John B, and Pope scowls when JJ and Kie laugh. 

Then Pope is settling down next to JJ, and JJ doesn’t look long enough to see the way Pope’s expression falters at the sight of the purpling bruises across his skin. 

“Morning skipper,” JJ offers, knocking their shoulders together, and Pope snorts. 

“Morning,” he answers, knocking their shoulders together too, “A little _cold_ , though.” 

“Nah,” JJ says, and pretends to pop the collar of the sweatshirt, “I’m feeling pretty warm, if I do say so myself.” 

“Oh yeah?” Pope’s eyes light up, a little. He teases in a way that makes JJ want to _melt_ , “Where’d you get that sweatshirt? Looks pretty stylish.” 

Ears tinting pink, JJ keeps the act up, shrugging, “Got it from a friend.” 

“A friend, huh?” Pope smiles, and it’s one of those rare, small genuine ones that only Pope can have, and it makes JJ feel something he’s not sure he’s ready to describe. Pope presses their shoulders together, and stays there, “Must be a pretty good friend to give you his sweatshirt. Don’t you think?” 

A helpless sort of smile spreads across JJ’s face before he can bite it back, and something in Pope’s eyes _glow_ at the sight. 

“I guess he’s alright,” JJ says, and if he maybe leans a little heavier on Pope’s shoulder, that’s nobody’s business but his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to screech at me on [tumblr](https://johnbbutmakeitace.tumblr.com/)


End file.
